


Keys

by Laralee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:49:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laralee/pseuds/Laralee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How odd it is that one could find the key to happiness hidden in a world forlorn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keys

 

 

Characters are property of J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter Universe. Thankfully, she allows me to borrow them for a bit of fun.

* * *

Keys

_How odd it is that one could find the key to happiness hidden in a world forlorn._

The evening’s shadows crept over the small town, starting first near the point where the dirty pavement turned to jagged chunks of rubble. Walking with such disarray underfoot was asking for skinned palms and a battered sense of pride. Then again, having any sort of association to a place such as this was equally troublesome for someone’s pride. On the sides of the pockmarked road terraced flats stood, sodden and weary from the nearly constant rainfall. One would have guessed no feet had traversed the abandoned streets in decades given its darkness.

Even the rain was dirty and discolored, and as it fell from the blackened sky and landed on the shingled rooftops, the droplets picked up bits of soot and muck that had been deposited by the towering chimneys in the neighbourhood. The water, defiled by the filth, trickled down the sides of the flats, leaving streaks of black on the whitewashed siding. In a sad, distorted way, it looked as though the houses themselves wept for having the horrible misfortune of being erected in such squalor.

A lone individual, brave enough to venture into such a desolate area, walked with purpose toward one flat in particular. The flat in question lacked any grandeur as it sat squeezed between two equally mediocre and identical homes. All of the windows were darkened, giving no evidence of life thriving beyond them. A few of the wooden planks covering the façade had become dislodged, either from the hands of vandals or weathering, and revealed the dingy, mould-ridden supports of the flat. The smell was maddening, a sticky, astringent stench of rotted wood and stagnant water that pierced the senses. Had magic not been protecting the skeletal structure of the home, it would have likely collapsed in a forgettable heap of stink and decay. But as they could be, and usually were, appearances were not always as they seemed.

With his shoulders hunched to fight the downpour, the man looked very much a spectre given the way his black robes curled with uneasy malevolence in the gusts of wind. His ink-coloured hair hung in his eyes, saturated by the freezing cold rain, but he paid it very little mind. Instead, he studied the forlorn flat with intense scrutiny until the reflection of a slicing bolt of lightning flashed across a broken pane of glass jutting from a second floor window. It caught his attention only momentarily, and just as Severus Snape averted his gaze, a deafening peal of thunder boomed down the abandoned street. The crack of thunder seemed to rip a hole in the sky, causing the rain to fall harder than before. Looking first to his left, then to his right, he checked the area for anyone who might have developed an interest in his activities.

Overhead, broken street lamps hung useless on their respective poles; the pitiful light radiating from them doing more harm than good to combat the vast shadows covering the ground. The gloomy shadows swallowed up everything they touched, plunging the landscape into a ceaseless darkness. This was the world now. This was what happens when the Dark managed to drown out the Light. Severus refused to dwell on that miserable fact as he continued to scan his surroundings. It was far too depressing and was the absolute last thought that needed to worm its way into his head.

Certain he hadn’t been followed, Severus started for the entrance to the house; his battered boots kicking up sprays of filthy water as they collided with the murky puddles pooling in the cracks and crevasses of the broken walkway. Just before reaching the door, he stopped to remove a chain that held a single, ordinary skeleton key from around his neck. The key pulsed in his hands, sensing its tarnished counterpart inlaid in the aged wood of the front door. Dwarfed by his palm, the instrument looked insignificant and useless as rain water dripped down its blunted teeth and then between his fingers. Severus had long considered the lock and its key his greatest achievement for the simple fact that it hid the one thing he could not do without.

He had found the enchantment in an ancient tome belonging to Lord Voldemort himself, and Severus had worked for months to perfect it. The spell in question, which had a name he could hardly pronounce, created a portal. It was similar to the Fidelius Charm but far more powerful because there were no secret keepers in which to blindly place your faith. The secret was kept in an inanimate object; in this case, it was the lock and matching passkey of a rundown flat building near the outskirts of Cokeworth.

It hadn’t been easy replicating the spell found on the musty pages of the book he had stolen. In fact, the earlier attempts had resulted in several destroyed keys and disappointments. Severus had studied the inner workings of the lock and the teeth of each key, painstakingly matching them to perfection. When the keys were charmed, they simply dissolved in front of his eyes, corroded by the powerful magic being forced into the metal. Several failed attempts later, Severus finally realised his mistake. The power couldn’t lie in an ordinary key, but a true passkey; a key that had been designed to circumvent the wards found within any lock—a key that would open a door to another world entirely.

When entering the premises without the charmed key, the innards of the flat would appear just as sickly as the exterior. That was precisely what Severus had intended when he had selected it. He had scoped out the abandoned area that lay, neglected and dying, in the ominous silhouette of the rundown mill. No one would have thought to look there, and, if they had, they would find nothing but the gutted, barren interior of a flat aged well beyond its meagre fifty years.

He removed the key carefully from the chain, and positioned it near the lock, allowing the ancient magic to do the rest of the work. Like every time before, the key hovered in the air when he released it and slowly slid its way into the lock as though being maneuvered by a steady, invisible hand. His eyes followed the simply designed bow as he looked on, hardly believing that he had been capable of creating such a thing. With smooth accuracy, the shank of the silver key started to glow faintly as it connected with the internal obstructions. He discreetly counted to five, ignoring the condensation of his warm breath as it drifted upward, and waited. Just as every time before, the key vanished and the latch clicked open, allowing him entry. A final reproachful glare is all he offered the outside world before pushing past the door and into the flat, and as far as Severus is concerned, that is all it deserved from him.

His first step across the threshold was greeted by a small weight that found its way to the chain he held. He didn’t have to look to know what it was because, after dutifully functioning each time, the key always managed to find its hiding spot and would wait there patiently to be called upon again. Severus clutched the key in his hand as though it were some terribly precious gem before returning the chain to his neck out of unwavering habit. As he tucked it beneath his collar and out of view, he knew deep down that he would have no qualms with killing to keep the key and its secrets clandestine.

With a wave of his wand, a small table lamp flared to life, bathing the room he had entered in a pale light. The room, Severus realised, was exactly as he had seen it four weeks prior. The modest space, although small, was inviting despite being decidedly feminine. The sense of warmth radiating from the very walls couldn’t have been anything but genuine, and he smiled in spite of his irascible mood. Tidy but lived in; this was the place he thought of when he found it hard to carry on. He took a step forward and was met with a familiar scent, honey and cherry blossom. It wasn’t overly powerful, but it seemed to permeate in every direction. The sound of a deep breath cut through the silence as Severus allowed the intoxicating scent to fill his senses, along with it the image of his greatest treasure. It smelled like her—like the voluminous curls that sat atop her head and her fair skin, which he hadn’t touched in what felt like a lifetime.

He had not told her that he would be returning home; he knew she would wait by the door if he did. Gifted as she was with intelligence and wit, she also possessed an uncanny ability to worry. Severus could tell each time he walked through the door that she put on a brave face for his benefit, forcing herself to endure their separation. He did the same for her of course, but Severus was certain she made no effort to her hide her tears and anxiety when the door closed behind him. The last time he had to leave her nearly his ripped resolve to shreds. The image of the single, errant tear that had passed silently over Hermione’s cheek haunted him daily, making him question whether answering the Dark Lord’s call was _right_ thing to do. Severus had almost turned back that day, avid to throw caution to the wind if it meant he didn’t have to leave her alone. He had made the right decision to carry on with the ruse, but that did not make it any easier. Nor did it prevent him from feeling like a stranger in his own home when finally given the chance to return.

Still drenched from the relentless downpour, he strode to their bedroom only to stop in the doorway when he saw her. She was sleeping, just as he had expected her to be given the lateness of the hour. She lay curled up in the centre of their bed, using an opened book as her pillow. Her impossible hair spilled over her arm and part of her face, but Severus could still see her. She looked youthful and unblemished by the dark, twisted chaos that thrived beyond their enchanted door. A green flannel throw was draped over her midsection, though her bare feet lay uncovered and crossed. He regarded the way the navy polish on her toes reflected in the soft radiance of the lamp. She had picked the colour because he liked it. Come to think of it, Hermione picked a lot of things he liked simply to make him happy. No one had ever done that for him—even if it was something as mundane as the colour of nail polish.

Severus had not seen her, touched her, in almost a month, and she was a welcome sight to his tired eyes. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and wrap her securely in his arms. Instead, he disappeared silently through the adjoining lavatory door, closing it to keep from disturbing her sleep. Severus caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror as he shed his water-logged clothes, and noticed the lines etched into his face. They appeared much harder than he remembered, making him recall the last time he had slept through the night. He stared at the glass, digesting the image of the man gazing back at him until the heat from the running shower steamed the surface. The last thing he saw before turning away was the faint gleam of light catching the silver skeleton key hanging from the chain around his neck.

Severus had no sooner stepped under the cascading stream of hot water when he felt her arms snake around his torso and her bare breasts press against his naked back. What a glorious feeling it was, though it paled in comparison to the sound of her voice.

“Welcome home,” she said, her tone warm and appreciative. Her lips danced across his back, treading carefully, lovingly over the scars he had procured during his troubled youth. Though Severus couldn’t understand how she managed it, Hermione always seemed to know exactly how to peel back the hard layers the outside world slathered on him like a second skin. He could almost feel the callousness being washed away by the pelting water, even see it circling the drain before it finally disappeared in the gutter where it belonged.

“Come here,” Severus said quietly—almost giving away the sudden ferventness of his tone.

He untangled her arms from around his waist and pulled her through the water crashing down overhead. Severus gripped her with an impulsive fierceness, feeling the silver skeleton key hanging from the chain around her neck scratch into his chest. They stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms until the water ran cold.

*****

They seemed to have developed a routine when Severus returned home from a round of playing to the Dark Lord whims. Hermione gave him space, though he never outwardly asked it of her. Nor did she press for information. It was their unspoken agreement and one they never breached. Severus had doubtless seen horrible things each time he left the confines of their hidden escape, but each time he stepped up willingly in his appearance as a Death Eater, his role as an informant for what was left of the Order remained intact. This time, he found, was no different.

After all, they had never had that perfect love story with its clichés and overly romanticised lines. Severus had not the time for it, and Hermione was content without it, but as the two of them held on to each other like lifelines, an outward observer would be hard-pressed to find lack of devotion. Severus couldn’t recall the exact moment when he fell for her, but with agonisingly vivid clarity, he could remember the exact moment he looked at her and the rest of the world faded away to nothingness. Even still, he found himself reliving that moment every day. Severus felt the familiar pang in his chest when she would finish his sentences, when she would bring him tea while he read, and when she accepted him back with open arms after his lengthy absences.

He still fought with his demons, and they still made him question what she saw in him. Perhaps it was the secret world he created for them, for her, or maybe she saw him as this lost, lonely, soulless creature and took pity on him. Each reason was more heinous than the last, and weighed heavily on the insecure, fearful side of him—the side that seemed to have only tunnel vision for grimness. And tonight, after they retired to their bed, it appeared the side that felt him unworthy was fully in control.

“I’ve missed you,” she said sleepily, pressing herself into his side. “You should’ve told me you were coming.”

He sagged further into the pillow, displeased with himself and his mood. “I knew you’d worry.”

He felt her hand glide across the skeleton key hidden under his shirt. “I worry just the same, you know,” she answered. “I would’ve waited up for you.”

Severus knew she would have, and that was a rather large part of the reason he didn’t send word. Hermione waited on him too often, and without hesitation. He felt it a terrible injustice to put her through more of it when he didn’t have to.

Her hand found its way under his shirt and was resting on his navel. “Next time,” she said, “please tell me.”

Severus lied, telling her that he would, but his words were forced, nearly strangled by her unintentional remark.

 _Next time._ He didn’t possess enough anger to show his true hatred for those two words. The thought of leaving again made him feel awful—awful beyond all—not to mention terribly lonely. And when he thought more specifically of leaving her behind, that familiar, brutal stab of guiltiness hit with the malicious intent to hurt. Severus felt his face grow fraught from the sudden and unwanted realization, and he only hoped he looked away before she noticed.

The abrupt shifting of her weight told him that he hadn’t.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione propped herself on her arm, running a hand across the stubble on his cheek. “Why do you hang your head like you’re ashamed?”

“You deserve better than this.”

“Severus, don’t.” The look on her face reminded him of the day he left four weeks prior, and he felt the familiar pain surge through his chest. He could physically see the effort she put forth to force the words past her lips. “Don’t do this to us, not this time.”

The boldness of her plea sliced into his suspicions, and in that moment, he was sure he heard her heart break; the tiny sound just shy of a whisper. Then came the feeling of being doused in iced water. He was wasting valuable time.

Severus hooked his leg behind hers, flipping her over on her back and pinning her hands over her head in a single, fluid motion. “I could never,” he answered, and then his tongue was in her mouth, claiming her as his, though he was never overly forceful. He wouldn’t dare cross that fine line separating that half of him—her part—with the other half they never openly discussed.

With his lips working their way up the length of her jaw, he could feel her skin rise with gooseflesh as his hot breath descended on her ear and then down her neck. “I have missed you,” he whispered. She tensed under his grasp. “The things I’ve _craved_...” The other hand had reached down to cup her backside, and began to tease the laced trim of her knickers. All the while his mouth never broke its prowling contact with her neck. Severus gave her hands a squeeze.

“Don’t move.” He had not expected the words to escape from his mouth in the manner in which they did. Stern as they were, infected with a touch of darkness, they served their purpose. With a mewling sigh, Hermione shifted her weight more comfortably under him, but kept her arms folded obediently behind her head. He needed this, and she knew it, which left him esurient for more.

Severus’s hands moved to the shirt she wore; one of his that she had commandeered from his side of the wardrobe. The grey cotton, rendered soft from countless days of wear came to rest just above her hip, while the unbuttoned collar hung off her shoulder. The memories he had carried with him, the ones he thought of daily, and with great longing, did her very little justice when he saw her in the flesh. He was always reminded of how much he loved her each time he had to let her go, but now, watching her while she waited for his next move, it became blindingly clear.

Taking the hem between his forefinger and thumb, Severus began to raise the fabric inch by tiny inch, and he heard the hushed hitch of her breath when the chilled air collided with her skin. It was remarkable, really, how she could make him fall for her all over again with the simplest of actions. Hands splayed on her skin, the fabric slithered up and over his wrists as he conquered the last barrier blocking her fully from view.

Hermione’s cream-coloured skin, tinged with a faint pinkness, was marred only by the silver chain and the key he had made for her. Positioned between her breasts, it caught the light each time she breathed, giving it the slight hint of luminescence. She never took it off. Severus remembered the day he gave it to her. It was the same day he swore his second oath to fight the very thing he went to such great lengths to preserve. She had cried openly when he left that night, promising to keep their secret safe and demanding that he to return to her safely when he could.

He ran his thumb across a peaked nipple, up the line of her jaw, and then to her bottom lip where it rested. She smiled, a brilliant yet basic expression that made him feel like warm, slow-melting wax. Locking one hand around her waist, the other crept over the delicate fabric covering her mons to feel her warmth radiating through the flimsy fibres, and as his hand slipped below the elastic band, he watched her shadowed face. Slow at first, Severus moved his hands across her skin, noticing with each graze that she relaxed, succumbing to the sensation brought about by his touch. A single finger dipped downward fleetingly, followed soon after by another, and she started to stir, rocking her hips to amplify the enraptured surge that was being slowly built.

He glimpsed a motion from the corner of his eye while he kissed her neck—the slow coiling of her hands around the spindles of the headboard. She was fighting a losing battle with his previous request, straining not to touch him or move.

“Not yet.” His mellifluous voice crept over her skin like satin, and she stilled. “Let me love you.”

And so he continued his movements, varying the fluctuations of the strokes and sweeps of his fingers in the way that only he knew she needed. He watched the gentle,albeit rapid, rise and fall of her chest, the way her breath escaped her lips in short pants, and the way she closed her eyes to savour the high. She came not soon after, nearly rising off the bed when the euphoric wave rushed over her. That was the way he loved her best, and knowing he was the one who could deliver such tailor-made gratification gave him a rush all his own.

Severus eased her up off the bed, removing the shirt he had bunched around her shoulders and discarded it with his own. _This_ , in its every form and glorious facet, told him he was finally free from the sour loneliness that had wound sinuously around him, keeping her just out of his reach—the same loneliness that forced him to cleave to memories at night to stay afloat throughout his absence. He didn’t need the memories now, not when he had her, and not when he turned to putty in her hands.

Hermione’s hands might have been small but they were steady, and above all else, _capable_ in a way he had never expected. Her nails slid skillfully over his shoulders and down his back, and it was his turn feel a shiver. When they found the evidence of his arousal, she gave a tender but calculated stroke.

“You haven’t been the only one left wanting,” she confessed unabashed, pushing him down by his shoulders. Severus watched as her hands trailed down his front, teasing delicately at the thin dusting of hair covering his chest. Looking into her chestnut-coloured eyes, it was all he could do to control himself as her hand gave a greedy foretelling squeeze to his upper thigh.

And then her mouth descended on him, and his hands fisted in her still shower-damp hair. The muscles in his legs tensed as her tongue traced aimless patterns across his cock. She had the power to soak through his very skin with each divine sweep, to leave him craving her touch days later while he clung to the simmering memories in the interim. There were no words for what she did to him, and in his current state of salacity, Severus wasn’t confident he could call them to mind had they existed.

Severus finally opened his eyes when he realised the sudden absence of her mouth’s warmth. He rose to protest her cessation but was unable to speak when he saw her. Lying back, she was propped against a single pillow with an alluring look in her eyes. She said nothing, not that she had to with the way a single finger summoned him forward. _Not the only one left wanting indeed._ He allowed his gaze to travel over her glorious form before he moved to the space between her legs—to grant them what they both desperately needed.

Time seemed to have stopped, and as it had happened each time before, there was only her. Slow and composed, Severus moved over her, his every effort calculated to please. Hermione caught the skeleton key as it swayed pendulum-like in time with each of his upward thrusts and pulled to bring his lips to hers. The chain, charmed to avoid breakage, burrowed into the back of his neck, ignored, as he persisted with each driving shift of his hips, matching the rocking motion of her pelvis. He felt himself slipping, losing himself to her completely, his rhythmic pace turned irregular and more possessive. It was his name on her tongue and the sound of their synchronized prurience that unravelled the last thread holding him together.

He was certain, as he held her, that she was the only one capable of freeing him from his doubts, his reservations. Hermione was able to convert him with such unfathomable ease from the calloused, austere man he pretended to be to the lover she had fallen for. Maybe one day he would come to understand exactly how she did it or why, but now, in the current moment, he could only think of how grateful he was that she had been willing to do so.

“Do you know why I chose these keys specifically?” A single finger traced languidly over the swell of her breast, and Hermione played with the chain hanging around her neck.

She glanced up, curiosity in her eyes. “Well, they’re passkeys, designed to pass through any lock no matter the constraints of its wards; any ordinary key wouldn’t work.”

“Right, but far too literal. I could have picked any passkey, but I chose these.” Severus pulled her closer and whispered in her ear. “Have a proper look at it.”

He watched while Hermione studied the key, and as her bottom lip was worked between her teeth, he knew she was giving the tiny object every ounce of her attention. “Look past the circles,” he breathed against her neck. “Look to the points they make and tell me what you see.”

“It makes a star,” she said as though she had known it all along, and before she could ask him why the shape was relevant, Severus explained.

“When the space between us makes me feel as though we are worlds apart, and when it seems everything could crumble at a moment’s notice, I think of the key and of you. And even though I can’t always see you,” he pressed on, “just as the star hidden within the design, I know you’re there.”

A short look of disbelief paid a visit to her face as she stared at the key, as though seeing it truly for what it was. He would have sworn he saw her eyes mist over as she fumbled for her words. “I… I never realised.”

He pressed a chaste kiss on the top of her head, smelling the sweet, candied scent of honey and cherry blossom and knew he was home. “All for you.”

* * *

Author’s Notes: As always, reviews are welcomed and greatly appreciated. Thanks again to Meladara for her keen eye and to of_anoesis for her taking the time to britpick this little tale.


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